Placebo
by TheTroubledTroubadour
Summary: The atmosphere shifts drastically from a (sick) fantasy to (oh, god) reality, from a passionate, incestual memory to a cold reminder that you are his father.
Ask any parent if they favor one child over another, and they'd probably tell you how _ridiculous_ it was, that they don't favor one child over another but love their children all the same. You disagree with this. What is wrong with coming to terms with how much better one has turned out over the other?

Light Yagami, your only son and first child to grace upon your eyes and into your arms, as you're filled with undying pride. From a young age, he never ceased to impress you. From offering to help you out with your work, to rising to the title of _top student_ in his class, you're proud to call him your son, your _favorite_.

It wasn't as if you didn't love your young daughter, Sayu. But she was so different from Light - talkative, nosy, and _not Light_. You just don't love her as much as him.

However, even Light is not perfect, and you don't shy away away from letting him know.

When it's just you and him, you would have him in his room, bent over with his slacks and boxers down to his ankles on his bed (which is neat, like him). You would pull the belt from the loops of your work pants and whip him, causing angry, red welts to form on his buttocks. He would try to grip the bedsheets tightly, pulling them from their respective corners on the mattress and moan eagerly and rock his hips against the pillows from under him, but you ignore how needy he is. _Bad_ boys do not get rewarded whenever they want.

" _Stop_ that," you scold, your voice angry and commanding, a voice that you use on criminals, _bad_ people. He whines.

"What did I do?"

"Your coy bullshit works on your mother, not me. Would you like to be reminded of that bad grade you brought home on that test? You did not study, did you?" You ask, and tighten your hold on the boy's hair. He doesn't respond (out of shame, you hope).

"I'm very disappointed. I expect better from you. You slide a calloused, cold hand down his pale, muscled back, and he shivers.

"Sure, you do," Light retorts. "Maybe if you weren't at work so much, I'd do much better."

It's a ludicrous statement, a trap to rouse your emotions, you know. He's bold, like you, and the outburst lets you know how you two are the same.

"Alright, wise guy. What does daddy do?" you challenge, and you feel him shudder at _daddy_. You press two fingers inside of him.

"Y-you catch criminals and b-bring them justice," He says, and a soft moan passes through his lips.

"When I ask you a question, I want you to answer me completely, do you understand?" You growl. "Daddy does _much more_ than that, you know this."

Because he's smart, you knew he'd feign ignorance and have you answer for him (he's spoiled, spoiled, spoiled, a double-edged sword you've been fighting with for most of his life). He nods and attempts to grind on your digits.

"When you bring home those kinds of things, mommy and daddy are disappointed in you, especially daddy. You don't want to upset daddy, do you?"

He shakes his head as a reply (and the implication of you being angry at him. Anger equals disappointment).

He begins to rut his hips onto the pillows again. You yank his hair and it quickly sends his head craning backwards, exposing his hickey-ridden neck (a part of you realize this is a mistake because he has a girlfriend, but you really don't care - you've had him _first_ ). He yelps.

"Stop it." Three fingers now. "Daddy is getting annoyed with you. Let _daddy_ do it. Bad boys aren't allowed to do things on their own."

He's shaking and desperate for _some_ kind of contact around his cock, but you could care less because he's not _listening_.

"Please, it won't happen again," He cries.

As sweet and as charming Light is, you know how clever he can be. You know that he's lying, but you are enjoying this much more than you should, seeing him squirm.

"No, I promise I'll study harder! Just -"

Again, he frustratedly tries to thrust his hips against the now-slightly-soiled pillow. Like his father, like _you_ , he has an immense amount of pride, and will _not_ resort to begging.

You decide to give in for now (you two are by yourself for only so long) and fuck him. He makes noises as if he's never been touched like this before, like he hasn't been pounded breathless into the bed countless times in the past (in his bed, always his bed), having him to leave more than light scratches on the bed frame, as he makes it harder and harder for you to hold back.

He begins moaning and babbling as if he's lost his ability to speak in the articulate, concise way that he always does ("Dad!", "Please-please-please-") and he grabs onto the headboard to steady himself.

When Light comes, it's beautiful. His head is halfway buried in the pillows and he cries out loudly (you were surprised the first time - he's almost always quiet any other time). You've seen him just as handsome, just as vulnerable when he's on his back, his pale, thin legs hoisted securely over your uniform shirt-clad shoulders, clinging to you like an old, familiar lifeline, but you enjoy it(him) either way.

Now he's a mess - stomach peppered with come, hair unkempt, face flushed...

You pull away from him, and off of the bed. You curse yourself for not wearing any sort of protection, and Light, _your_ Light's leaking onto his now somewhat-clean sheets, further dirtying them, and it disgusts you, because the illusion of some semblance of a 'healthy' parental relationship is gone from your mind.

"Dad," Light calls out. His voice is slightly hoarse, but wanting, needy. It vaguely reminds you of when he was younger, more naive (but he's not so much anymore, he's intelligent and perceptive as hell and _knows_ ). "Where are you going?"

"To work," you respond coolly. The atmosphere shifts drastically from a (sick) fantasy to (oh, god) reality, from a passionate, incestual memory to a cold reminder that _you are his father_.

After you get dressed, he's still lying on his bed, watching you, having made no attempt to fix his hair, or to cleanse himself of your own musky scent that is lingering on him like heavy, dull fog that rolls on the surface of an ocean. He must be thinking of how _wrong_ and _depraved_ this all is (it's the only way you've decided to make up for lost time from since he was little).

"When will you come home again?" He asks in such a way, that it unnerves you to answer him immediately. You've heard it from the whole family before, more from him than anyone one else, and you're almost afraid to answer, to push him even further from you (if that's possible).

"I don't know."

Then, you walk out his room, and don't look back.


End file.
